The Black Girl Survives in This One: "The Brides of Devil's Bayou" by Desiree S. Evans

Like the task she now finds herself facing, having returned to Devil’s Bayou, the land of her mama’s kinfolk.

The plan is to celebrate Aja’s nineteenth birthday in two days here in her old hometown, heeding the advice of Aja’s therapist from the campus health center: Go to the source of your fear and let it go.

Thin and regal, with light brown skin and a head full of kinky silver hair.

This piece of family folklore used to scare Aja more than anything in the world, but her therapist had told her these stories were just a way her family had tried to make sense of the horrible things that had happened to them.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror, her honey-brown skin ashen in the fluorescent light.

In the kitchen, Aja dons her memaw’s old “Praise the Cook” apron and preps breakfast.

Letricia had grown up in Biloxi, and she and Aja bonded over their love of frozen custard and the graffitied study carrel on the fifth floor of the campus library.

A few small creases around her eyes are the only testament to the years that have passed since Aja last saw her.

Its jaw distends and widens as if it is readying itself to eat her alive.

The skepticism she’d worked so hard to cultivate over the past several years, the skepticism her therapist had backed with sound scientific explanations and promises of eventual healing, is fading fast.

“Believe it,” Letricia says, fervent.

Holy water and Latin; charms and incantations; sage and incense; chants and prayers for protection.

“This rite isn’t from the internet; it’s from my mama’s people in Mississippi. Old Delta hoodoo stuff, you know. We start off by throwing salt in the four corners of the house, and then we bury a bottle of it under the house.”

Her best friend is currently armed with an old rosary, internet prayers, and Florida water—ready for battle.

They turn to watch the demon coalesce into a swirling storm cloud right above the house.